


Wedding Braids

by skatzaa



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Hair Braiding, Mentions of Alderaan Culture, Political Alliances, Treat, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-27 22:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: Breha meets her reflection’s gaze. She was right: the glow from her pulmonodes turns her dress from pink fabric into a living sunset. But she hadn’t anticipated the way the light would catch on the loops and curls of her wedding braids as they cascade over her shoulders.She is radiant, in the truest sense of the word.





	Wedding Braids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ljparis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ljparis/gifts).



> Ljparis, Bail and Breha are pretty much my favorite sw couple ever, I couldn't resist writing this treat. I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> I went with the headcanon that, as the future queen, Breha's House "outranked," so to speak, Bail's, so he takes her last name once they're married. Therefore, she's the Organa and he's the Antilles.

****Breha insists on a low neckline and no necklace.

Her attendant droid, S2-CE, frets over the decision right up until the wedding.

“Are you certain about this, Princess?” she asks, rolling back and forth on her single base wheel. If she had a mouth, Breha thinks she would be worrying her lip. “It’s not too late to call the tailor back.”

Breha laughs and steps in front of the full length mirror. As always, her pulmonodes give off the softest orange glow. Breha thinks the effect is lovely when combine with the low neckline of her gown, the off-the-shoulder sleeves, and the sunset pink of the fabric. Let the galaxy know that she is stronger for her weaknesses.

“Toocee, the wedding starts in an hour,” Breha says, not unkindly. “Even Jasari isn’t that quick.”

Toocee continues to fret, clacking her metal fingertips together over and over.

Breha takes pity on her. “I think it’s time we start on my hair, do you agree?”

If droids could sigh in relief, Breha thinks Toocee would. Hairstyles, Toocee can handle.

After several weeks of debate, they compromised on the hairstyle, by which she means: Toocee decided she wouldn’t listen to Breha on this, after losing the argument about the dress. Breha was in favor of a simple braid crown, with ribbons woven through her hair in the traditional wedding colors. But Toocee wouldn’t hear of it, and so Breha finds herself seated at the vanity, careful not to wrinkle her dress, watching her reflection be yanked back and forth by Toocee’s strong hands.

Alderaani wedding braids are unique to the wearer and their station, a simplified version of the spouse braids Breha will wear for special functions after today. She places her fingers where Toocee indicates, but otherwise stays quiet.

This is the first time in days she’s had more than a moment to consider what’s to come. She should be nervous, she thinks: an arranged political marriage to a man nearly a decade her senior is hardly what she might have imagined for herself as a young girl growing up in her bejeweled city, nestled among the _Antepasada_ mountains, with Appenza Peak towering above the rest. Her mothers married for love, after all, and so will Deara as the younger child. But as crown princess, Breha’s path is different.

Despite that, she isn’t nervous. She doesn’t know Bail Antilles particularly well, besides his reputation to perhaps enjoy brandy too much after a long political meeting. But he works hard for Alderaan’s benefit—all of Alderaan, too, and not just the great houses—and he’s not afraid to put in the work to help people himself.

She should be nervous, but mostly Breha is just tired and ready to be past the wedding itself.

“There,” Toocee says gently. “I do believe you’re ready.”

Breha meets her reflection’s gaze. She was right: the glow from her pulmonodes turns her dress from pink fabric into a living sunset. But she hadn’t anticipated the way the light would catch on the loops and curls of her wedding braids as they cascade over her shoulders.

She is radiant, in the truest sense of the word.

“Toocee, I think you’re right.”

Her droid hums happily. She’s ready.

* * *

The throne room has been decorated in the colors of the houses of Antilles and Organa, and it is full of her future subjects. At the end of the long aisle, Bail waits for her, his hands clasped behind his back, and behind him the Queen and Princess Consort sit on their thrones.

Breha holds nothing in her hands; with everyone’s eyes on her, she wishes she had the Rhindon Sword again now, as she did nine years ago. They dip their heads and murmur old Alderaani blessings as she passes, bestowing long life, happiness, a steady ruling hand. Her people love her mothers, and they love her. They love Bail, too, but distantly. He is Viceroy, but she will be Queen.

When Breha reaches the base of the stairs leading up to the dais, she raises her eyes.

Bail meets them, a gentle smile on his face.

Breha takes a breath and sets her shoulders. She wonders what she looks like, to his eyes.

The officiant steps forward, holding the braided ribbon meant to symbolize their union in both of her hands. Bail relaxes his arms, but with the wide cuffs of his ceremonial robes mean she can only see the tips of his fingers.

She breathes again, her pulmonodes whirring quietly in her chest, and climbs the stairs.

* * *

Breha stares at the bed, feeling almost... bewildered. Beside her, Bail also stares at the bed.

She’s not quite sure how they got here so quickly: the ceremony was a beautiful blur, though the process of thanking everyone as they left, after that, was anything but brief. The celebration and feast after, set in the palace’s largest courtyard so that the citizens of Aldera could come and see the couple with their own eyes, passed by even faster.

The chaos was dulled with the help of alcohol and the pride radiating off of her Mamí and Amá and hours of dancing with anyone who asked kindly. She and Bail danced together whenever they could both duck away from well-wishers, which was less often than she would have preferred. What seemed like all of her students, past and present, came to see her, and she danced with each and every one, laughing all the while. Each of their parents took their turns with both of them, fond and teary eyed.

But now: the bed.

Breha has had her share of lovers and she doesn’t doubt that Bail has as well. But there is something insurmountably awkward about standing beside someone you don’t even know well enough to be truly attracted to and feeling the weight of an entire planet’s expectations.

“Well,” Bail says, his voice cheerful despite the roughness that comes from talking too much for too long, “I’m thoroughly exhausted.”

Breha feels her shoulders relax, though she hadn’t realized they were tense a moment before.

Bail fidgets with his cuffs. She wonders if the added length was, in fact, intentional. He says, voice low, “Not tonight.”

Breha shakes her head. No, not tonight. There will be plenty of time.

But there is something they can share tonight, perhaps equally as intimate.

“Will you help me with my hair, tonight?” she asks.

Bail turns to face her and so Breha mirrors him. He brings his hand up, the cuff falling down his his wrist, and presses his large, warm palm to her cheek. His fingers curl into the hair by her ear.

“Of course.” He smiles, and it makes him look younger. His hand drops down to rest on her shoulder. “You look lovely in this dress, but I think we’ll both be more comfortable in something else.”

One of the alcoves turns out to be a small dressing room, and Breha finds one of the loose, sleeveless sleeping gowns she favors tucked away in one of the drawers. She pulls it out and sets it aside, and then runs into another issue: she can’t undo all of the tiny, slippery buttons running down the length of her spine.

“Bail?” she asks, venturing out into the bedroom again.

Bail has changed already into sleeping pants and a soft looking shirt, and he’s sitting on the bed staring at the ground. He looks a million light-years away.

“Bail?” she tries again. He looks up, eyes wide and tired. “Will you help me? I can’t reach.”

She turns around to let him see what she means and hears the sounds of him standing and walking across the room. Then: his fingers, steady and gentle, undoing each of the buttons. It becomes clear, after a moment, that he’s managing the buttons with only one hand, because the other follows behind it, warm and tender against the skin of her back.

Breha suppresses the urge to shiver.

Bail’s hands stop at the small of her back and she holds her breath, conscious of the silence blanketing the room. One of his fingers strokes back and forth over a small patch of her skin, and this time she can’t stop the shudder that runs through her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his hands drop away. She steps away without correcting him, careful to hold the dress in place, and goes back to the dressing room. It only takes a moment to lay her dress off to the side and pull on the sleeping gown she found earlier.

When she emerges, Bail is seated once more on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. One of his legs is pulled up onto the bed, but the other hangs off the side of the mattress. His toes don't quite touch the ground. Breha climbs onto the bed and situates herself in front of him, crossing her legs beneath her.

They’re quiet as he begins to pick at her braids. It must be little more than a snarled mess by now, after hours of celebrating, but Bail doesn’t complain.

She should be nervous, she thinks, to have this near stranger as her husband, to have his hands in her hair already. But she isn’t.

Breha dozes off like that, with Bail’s fingers working through the tangles and his quiet humming in her ear, though she doesn’t know when he began. She comes back to awareness with the touch of his hand to her side. He says, “Time for bed, I think.”

She nods, reaching up to check her hair. It falls down her back in smooth waves, brushed and smelling slightly of the oil she occasionally uses. She doesn’t know where he found it. Breha shifts sideways so she can see him, bracing herself on the mattress to stay upright.

“Thank you,” she says. He nods. When he blinks, his eyes stay closed for a heartbeat too long.

Breha leans forward and kisses him, just the slightest press of her mouth against his. Gently, cautiously, he touches his fingertips to the underside of her jaw.

She lingers for a moment longer before pulling back. When she opens her eyes, Bail is smiling at her.

“Goodnight,” she whispers. He kisses her again, tender.

They have all the time in the galaxy, but she doesn’t pull away. Not quite yet. They have time, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the concept of spouse/husband braids from a hanleia fic, though I can't remember which one now. If you know it, feel free to point me in the right direction! (ETA: [here's the link!](http://notbecauseofvictories.tumblr.com/post/150611236100/slides-20-across-the-ask-box-what-do) Thank you ReneeoftheStars for finding it for me!!)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated but never required.
> 
> Read on,  
> Skats


End file.
